"But I live somewhere else, too. As one of the ridiculously privileged inhabitants of the planet, I own what is called a country house. It is the first house I have ever really loved; perhaps it is more true to say it is the first house I have ever been in love with.
"As a young woman, I would not have predicted that I would fall in love with a house. That I would yearn for it when I am away, as I would a lover. That I would attend to its needs, anticipating its afflictions, forestalling them, assuaging them as I would a child. That it would comfort and solace me like the perfect mother. Provide the necessary environment for work: not only my mother but additionally my patron, my sugar daddy.
"For most of my life, I had feared houses: what they represented, their demands, which I saw as inimical to my life as an artist. I agreed with Emerson that gardens were the enemies of ink wells. My models for domestic life were not encouraging. There was my grandmother, whose iron rule over her demesne created a tense basso continuo that poisoned family life. And then my mother who, perhaps in rebellion against her mother, seemed determined to create a shambles. And so for a long time I was afraid of owning any house I might like — a variation of Groucho Marx not wanting to be a member of any club that would have him. I was afraid that I would be inattentive: I would leave the bath running and the walls would turn to chalky milk. I would leave the iron on and the beautiful woodwork would burn to a cinder. I would fail to identify silverfish or earwigs; I would not stop mildew in its tracks."
